


Through Night Forests

by kototyph



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Nipple Play, Porn With Plot, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, Somnophilia, Way More Plot than is Necessary or Advisable for a Porny Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26292235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: It’s dark and silent inside the small apartment, as he expected, but not totally black— there’s a sliver of light leaking through the cracked bedroom door.“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon calls with sudden hope, stepping towards it, and promptly trips over a pair of boots.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 114
Collections: QuiObi Kink Week





	Through Night Forests

**Author's Note:**

> This was for the August 29 prompt for the [kink week](https://quiobi-kinkweek.tumblr.com/) (somnophilia and/or exhibitionism), but late is my Brand (TM) so happy September 4th!!!

“I don’t think he’s coming, Master.”

Qui-Gon, caught frowning at his silent communicator again, glances up across the table and smiles ruefully. “I fear you are correct, padawan. My sincere apologies for monopolizing your evening.”

Anakin shrugs one shoulder, obviously not too bothered; he had cleared his plate half an hour ago and, with a teenaged boy’s ferocious appetite, filled and cleared it again while Qui-Gon only picked at his own. A few vegetable slices and bites of bread are all that’s missing, the wine at his elbow still corked. Obi-Wan’s plate sits to the side, untouched and stone cold. 

“Are you guys fighting?”

“Oh, no more than usual,” Qui-Gon says. He tries to make peace between them before Obi-Wan’s deployments with the 212th for obvious, morbid reasons, but since their main disagreement centers on Obi-Wan’s participation in the war at all it’s something of an ongoing argument.

“Then he’s probably just trapped with the Council,” Anakin says with breezy certainty, and what Qui-Gon considers to be the appropriate amount of dismissal for that august body. “Or reporting to the Senate. Whatever. He’ll show up eventually, he’s supposed to be here for weeks this time.”

“Supposed to be, yes,” Qui-Gon muses, looking at the cold plate next to him. “Well then. We’ll have to try this again tomorrow.”

“Wizard. Can I go now?”

Qui-Gon considers the boy, his tapping fingers and the restless energy sparking in the Force around him. “That depends. What are your plans?”

Anakin hums, eyes tracking to the side as he thinks. “I was going to make Obi take me to the salle, but now… they’ve started using a new mouse droid series in some of the towers. They’re more complex than the ones down here— better build quality, more processing power— and I want to catch one, see if it will talk to me.”

Now Qui-Gon grins. “Would one of those towers happen to be the High Council’s, my terribly curious padawan?”

Anakin grins back. “Maybe?”

“Then I look forward to the results of your research,” he says, and dismisses him with a wave.

Anakin trots off, and is in and out of his room in the time it takes Qui-Gon to rise and tidy their meal away, placing the leftover greens and protein in the refrigeration unit and carefully wrapping Obi-Wan’s plate in clingfilm. Some of it has gone soggy, and some it has solidified, but if Qui-Gon’s hunch is correct— and they are more often than not, even in these turbulent times— it will be welcome anyway.

“Hello, Obi-Wan,” he says into his comm, not for the first time that night. “I’m sorry we missed you this evening, but there will be a plate for you and plenty of leftovers if you’re hungry. Please feel free to stop by.”

“And remember you owe me salle time!” Anakin shouts from across the room.

“And remember you owe Anakin salle time,” Qui-Gon dutifully repeats. “Be well.”

He disconnects the holo, and Anakin says, “You should take some food to his rooms.” The boy is shoving his feet into boots as he speaks and grabs a cloak from the wall. It’s Qui-Gon’s, and drags behind him on the floor, but not as much as it did even a year ago and certainly not as much as it had when his brother-padawan had also stolen it, once upon a time. “And tea. He’s been on a ship for months, he probably hasn’t had any for a while.” 

Qui-Gon has never been quite sure if Anakin realizes how drastically the relationship between Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon has changed since Naboo. The boy is perceptive but not often subtle, and looks at him now with a guilelessness that seems unfeigned. 

“An excellent idea, Anakin. Thank you,” Qui-Gon says, and Anakin gives him one last bright smile before slipping out the door.

His padawans, both brave and brimming with the need to prove themselves but otherwise so very, very different: one careless with himself, utterly reckless with his power, and one so careful he would wall himself off from every uncertainty— good or bad— if allowed to. And yet somehow it is Obi-Wan, his kind-hearted, cautious philosopher, whose sense of duty has led him into such jeopardy. 

Not that Qui-Gon blames him for becoming entangled— so many of the Jedi are, and more set aside their peacetime aspirations and occupations for military titles every day. No, Qui-Gon knows exactly who to blame for the dread that lives permanently inside his chest now— and it is, more than anyone else, himself. 

He made a sith’s bargain without ever realizing that Obi-Wan’s service would be the price he paid for speaking out against Geonosis and the new, terrifying Grand Army of the Republic; for resigning from all councils and readily voicing his disgust when he’s one of the few who do; for his steadfast refusal to allow himself and Anakin to be drawn into the bottomless wellspring of violence forming under their feet. 

Now he has no say, no leverage, and adding razors to the bitter pill— Obi-Wan had been so proud to be asked. He’d shouted as much at Qui-Gon across dinner tables and busy hangars: he thinks it an honor, a prize in recognition of his skill despite the newness of his knighthood that he now has the privilege of leading thousands of cloned men to their deaths. 

And it could be all of that, but it is also Mace Windu meeting Qui-Gon’s eyes as assignments are announced and with a few words damning newly-minted Knight Kenobi to the bloodiest battlefields of the galaxy. With sorrow, yes, but no remorse.

Qui-Gon can’t change Obi-Wan’s mind, certainly can’t change Mace’s— he’d made damned sure of that, hadn’t he— and no one man has the power to change the war or its course. Not yet. 

But he can bring his former padawan a homecooked meal, a bottle of wine, and all the tea in the household. 

It makes for a bulky armload as he takes the dormitory stairs down to the tiny, dreary little rooms reserved for knights and unaccompanied masters. He doesn’t see many people as he goes, and none at all in Obi-Wan’s corridor. He finds himself unsurprised; so many are fighting. So many are already dead.

He knocks on the door, but doesn’t wait long to press his hand to the lock and let himself through. It’s dark and silent inside the small apartment, as he expected, but not totally black— there’s a sliver of light leaking through the cracked bedroom door. 

“Obi-Wan?” Qui-Gon calls with sudden hope, stepping towards it, and promptly trips over a pair of boots. 

The boots mark the start of a trail, one he follows from the front room in: a short cloak puddled next to the wall, outermost tunic dropped in the hall with pieces of plastoid armor mixed in, obi left just beyond that. Pants caught in the bedroom door itself, preventing it from closing. Qui-Gon nudges the door open a little further, and sees Obi-Wan on the bed.

His philosopher lies sprawled at an angle on top of the sheets, wrapped in a towel and nothing else. The cloth is loose around his hips. The light in the room leaks from the fresher and gilds the lines of his body: the curled arm, the bent leg, the vulnerable panes of his bare chest and stomach. His beard has grown enough to be worthy of the title, finally, and lying there in the half-light he is a stunning work of the living Force.

He’s also deeply asleep, possibly for some time, and only responds with the faintest pulse of recognition when Qui-Gon sends a questing thought. His dreams run dark and slow through his mind, like half-seen rivers through night forests.

Qui-Gon drinks him in for a long, painful moment, unhurt and whole. Then he quietly backs out of the room. 

The food goes in the empty fridge unit, the tea in equally bare cabinets, and clothing is gathered under his arm. Obi-Wan’s comm is on the counter, blinking accusingly, and Qui-Gon silences it to prevent any further interruptions. His footsteps are noiseless on the thin carpet of the bedroom as he re-enters and sets the boots next to the small closet alcove, depositing the clothes inside.

Obi-Wan has always hated mess, and hated it more in their quarters than any other place. He must have been truly exhausted to leave things so scattered. Qui-Gon sets the fresher to rights as well, mopping up puddles and straightening mats, before he turns off the light. It leaves the bedroom lit by just the Coruscanti skyline, shining on unknowing through the slatted windows.

“If you stay like this, you’ll catch your death,” he murmurs to the man on the bed, finally kneeling where Obi-Wan’s head comes perilously close to slipping off the edge of the mattress. His hair is wet and cold under Qui-Gon’s hand, and an unchecked shudder moves through his body as Qui-Gon slides his fingers underneath, cradling his skull. “Come along, dear one. Let's get you under the covers at least.”

A small line appears between his eyebrows, precursor to the scowl Qui-Gon is so familiar with. 

“No arguments brooked, I’m afraid,” Qui-Gon says, unable to resist a quick kiss to the spot. 

At the brush of his beard, Obi-Wan makes a low noise of annoyance and turns his face away, and Qui-Gon is charmed into soft laughter. Because he can, and Obi-Wan is not awake to bat him away, he presses another kiss to his forehead. Then over his eye. His cheek, just shy of his own beard. His slack mouth, which yields so sweetly, no resistance at all.

Obi-Wan stirs then, something like awareness cutting through the dark dreams in flashes of silver. Qui-Gon slides his tongue along the crease between Obi-Wan’s teeth and lip, and nudges him back down. 

Obi-Wan is so tired, after all. Hadn’t even been able to dress himself after getting out of the shower. He needs the rest.

And Qui-Gon needs this, Obi-Wan a safe and passive weight as Qui-Gon gently maneuvers his face into the crook of his neck and pulls him mostly upright against his chest, an arm around his waist and the other under his knees. The sheets and duvet, a bit dusty but otherwise clean, peel themselves down the bed as Qui-Gon lifts up to reposition him with his head on the pillow. 

“You won’t be needing this, either,” Qui-Gon says, sliding two fingers under the now fully loose towel. The skin against his knuckles is damp and hot. “Don’t worry, I’ll hang it up to dry.”

Obi-Wan shivers in his sleep as the cloth drags against him, and shivers again as air meets his skin. He makes a soft noise of protest. In the low light, there’s a rush of pebbled skin across his body, and his nipples have tightened into small dark buds. 

“Ah, now I’ve made you even colder. We can’t have that,” Qui-Gon murmurs, rubbing hands up his arms. Obi-Wan makes that noise again, unfiltered and delightfully petulant, and curls into Qui-Gon’s chest where he’s leaning against the bed. 

“Should I join you?” Qui-Gon whispers to him, free to stroke up his back, down over his naked flank and thigh. “It would certainly be warmer. Would you like that, love?”

Something in Obi-Wan is responding to Qui-Gon’s voice despite how deeply he sleeps, a little flare of warmth at every word. Qui-Gon smiles down at him, and returns the feeling through the Force until Obi-Wan gives a pleased sigh and relaxes back into the bed.

Qui-Gon makes short work of the towel, then, and strips out of his own clothes down to his skin. He leaves them folded on the fresher counter and pads quickly back to the narrow bed and its lovely occupant, because the air is indeed chillier than it could be. He tucks himself in behind Obi-Wan, pulling the sheets up around their ears, and settles as close as he can get. His arm pulls tight around Obi-Wan’s waist and his face presses into the back of his neck, luxuriating in the feeling.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in years,” Qui-Gon whispers, eyes closed. “Eons. I missed you so _much_ , love.”

He has the best of intentions, really, but Obi-Wan leans back into him with a heartfelt sigh and still smells faintly of soap and shampoo behind his ear. The lobe tastes only of skin when Qui-Gon samples it, unable to resist. Obi-Wan makes a little groaning noise in response and shifts again in his arms, trying to turn towards him as Qui-Gon’s mouth dwells at the hinge of his jaw. 

“Oh? Would you like another kiss?” Qui-Gon asks him. “You only had to ask.”

Instead of desperate, stolen time in loading docks and temple gardens, Qui-Gon can savor him properly like this: a thorough devouring, with long, indulgent exploration of yielding lips and a pliant tongue. His kisses draw shaky sighs from Obi-Wan, restless movement from his limbs. The sensation of another beard against his face is quite new as well, and he spends long moments indulging himself with the feel of it scraping against his lips, his cheek. Obi-Wan shifts again, blindly seeking his mouth, and Qui-Gon tugs him onto his back to make it easier. 

Obi-Wan hasn’t shaved recently, the line of the beard under his jaw a bit untidy. Qui-Gon sucks wide, warm marks into the vulnerable skin there, over his pulse and tendons on the way to his shoulder. He lingers until Obi-Wan’s stomach is clenching under the spread of his hand, breathless sounds breaking soft in his throat.

“Does that feel good, love?” Qui-Gon asks him, voice low. Obi-Wan is close to surfacing again, body pressing up into Qui-Gon’s touches like a spoiled cat. His head is back and his lips are slick and parted, one hand tangled loosely in Qui-Gon’s hair and the other open and supplicant on the mattress. “I want to make you feel good. Let me?”

Qui-Gon coaxes him down into barely twilight awareness as he moves to his chest, savoring the stuttering breath as he lets his tongue curl lavish and wet around one tight nipple, teeth scraping lightly after it.

 _“Oh_ ,” Obi-Wan says very clearly, heel dragging up the bed as his body tries to bow. Qui-Gon guides the errant knee over his waist, pulling until Obi-Wan is partly on top of him. He presses him closer with a hand in the middle of his back, opening his mouth along the defined edge of a pectoral and sucking hard enough to pull a sharp moan from Obi-Wan. The moan breaks into small gasping breaths as Qui-Gon works the nub on his tongue to aching hardness, then the other, each tug and nip sending a quake through the man in his arms and a convulsive tightening of the leg over his.

“Oh, you’re noisy like this, aren’t you?” Qui-Gon breaths against him, elated, nuzzling at the firm muscle. “Noisy, gorgeous—” 

Obi-Wan’s cock is growing hard and wet against Qui-Gon’s stomach, hips twitching into him without any rhythm. Qui-Gon smooths the hand between Obi-Wan’s shoulder blades down to the swell of his ass and helps him press closer, rub up against him more firmly. Obi-Wan makes a desperate sound, then, and starts to buck in earnest. It’s clumsy and uneven, and so beautifully honest.

“That’s it,” Qui-Gon praises him against spit-slick skin, and bites down just to hear Obi-Wan whine. “Just like that, love.”

He squeezes the firm flesh once and then lets go, raising his hand to his mouth. He gets his thumb sloppily wet as Obi-Wan starts to pant above him, quaking moans spilling from his lips as Qui-Gon urges him to thrust shamelessly against his stomach, leaking enough precome to make the slide easy. Qui-Gon manhandles Obi-Wan until he’s taking all of his weight, pulling his leg wide and sliding both hands back down to his ass to spread his cheeks.

“Ha-ah _, ah,”_ is moaned in Qui-Gon’s ear, his wet thumb rubbing firmly at Obi-Wan’s hole. He doesn't press in, doesn’t have the patience, but keeps up a steady, circling pressure that has the man in his arms thrashing weakly, struggling against the thin veneer of sleep Qui-Gon is holding over him.

“That’s it, that’s it,” Qui-Gon whispers, feeling Obi-Wan start to fall apart against him, feeling his hips jerk harder and his fingers dig into Qui-Gon's shoulder and arm. “That’s good, you're so good for me love—”

Obi-Wan’s whole body seizes and he claws at Qui-Gon and the sheets, suddenly gasping _, “Qui—!”_

“I’m here,” Qui-Gon says, pulling him in tight, letting him rut messily against his stomach and back against his hand. Obi-Wan gives a cracked shout and comes until they’re both filthy, smeared and dripping with it. Qui-Gon holds him until his stuttering, frantic movements finally slow, and stop.

He makes the most delightful noise of mingled pleasure and mortification, then: awake at last. His face is pressed into Qui-Gon’s hair, and his breath shakes on every exhale.

“What… what in all the karking sith hells,” he says, sounding dazed. _“Master.”_

Qui-Gon would level cities to see the blush that must be spreading over his face, as hot as it feels to the touch. He tilts his head back until he finds Obi-Wan’s mouth again and kisses him greedily, lifting a hand to his jaw to hold him in place when he half-heartedly tries to pull away. He’s not as pliant now, but just as sweet and warm once Qui-Gon slides his tongue home.

“That doesn’t— does _not_ answer my question,” Obi-Wan pants when Qui-Gon lets him. 

“I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it all,” Qui-Gon tells him hoarsely, and Obi-Wan gives a breathless curse and lets Qui-Gon press him back into the mattress for more kisses, arms winding around his neck to keep him close. 

Sometime later, he mutters, “Ugh, we’re sticking,” into Qui-Gon’s mouth. “I just washed, Qui-Gon.”

“That is somewhat rude of me, isn’t it,” Qui-Gon muses. 

“Terribly,” Obi-Wan says with a yawn. Then, “Wait, not yet,” as Qui-Gon moves to sit up. “Stay. I’ll—” 

“Don’t worry, love. I’m not going anywhere,” he says, hands easing Obi-Wan’s thighs apart. 

“But— ah,” Obi-Wan says as Qui-Gon puts his weight on them, pinning him to the bed. He rises on his elbows in growing alarm as Qui-Gon noses leisurely down the centerline of his body, until he reaches his softening cock. “Wait— _”_

“I can hardly let you go to bed _sticky_ ,” Qui-Gon says, very reasonably he thinks, and sucks his thighs, stomach, and oversensitive cock clean until Obi-Wan is swearing and twisting wildly in his grip, yanking at his hair in an uncoordinated struggle against a second orgasm that tears a sobbing cry from his throat when it hits. 

This one Qui-Gon is careful to clean up as he goes, until Obi-Wan finally kicks free and lunges at him with a growl. Qui-Gon, laughing too much to fight it, allows Obi-Wan shove him back on the mattress and revenge himself until they’re both sweating and exhausted, hopelessly tangled in the sheets.

“Love you,” Obi-Wan whispers, utterly limp against his chest. “You absolute ass.”

“Such poetry for your old master,” Qui-Gon says, comfortable with the accusation. He presses one last kiss to his forehead. “Sweet dreams, love.”


End file.
